


Delaney Nootka Trading Company Deep Storage

by wysiwygot



Category: Taboo (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Frottage, Gen, More like teenage fumbling, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Prompt, Underage is overstating it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-04-17 12:59:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14189469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wysiwygot/pseuds/wysiwygot
Summary: Stories, vignettes, and various observations from the past, present, and future files of James Delaney. These are stand-alone tales but might occasionally complement my longer AU story, "To Be of Use."





	1. On Being a Short Arse

Chapter 1: On Being a Short Arse

Young James Keziah Delaney was not well liked at seminary school. Not by the other cadets, not by the masters, not even by the kitchen staff. There were many reasons for this, both real and imagined: James was caustic and boastful; too loud when he should have been quiet, silent when he should be speaking up; he couldn’t take criticism, advice, or even a rare compliment. He didn’t even take instruction particularly well, after a time, and as that was the whole reason for the East India Company military seminary, few were particularly sorry to see him embark on his first assignment at 17.

Six years earlier, at the date of his enrollment, James Delaney was quite small and undeniably scrawny, while simultaneously imagining and comporting himself as a much larger boy. He would eventually become a formidable bully, especially of bullies, a behavior inspired on his very first day at the seminary, after an older cadet named Davies called him “short arse” as he pushed by James in the hall. He knocked Delaney, as he was of course to be known, off balance. The collision sent the folded and freshly pressed dress uniform in James’ arms tumbling to the worn (but admittedly immaculate) wood floor. Davies had made a mortal enemy of Delaney without even knowing it. What he didn’t have in height, James would eventually build in muscle mass and dogged intensity, until no one could knock him off balance again.

None of the older boys wanted young Delaney as their servant (known at the seminary as a fag), either, as his unpleasant nature and petulance made it clear he’d likely spend more time suffering at the corporal’s paddle than standing in the masters’ graces. There was no benefit to having a helper who was unhelpful, bordering on churlish, no matter how competent he might be. Delaney was undeniably magnetic in many ways—so delicate in the face that he was nearly angelic—but he was also mean and spiteful, quick to anger. He kept a frown on his face even when the masters were addressing him, as if it was a mask that he’d grow into.

His unattractiveness as a servant was just as well to James, really, as he had no interest in being anyone’s boy, in blacking someone’s boots or handing over his pudding, despite it meaning that he had no protector and no mentor for his first few brutal years at school. The lack of someone looking out for him meant that he found himself at cross-purposes at almost every turn: in the gymnasium, he had no one to cheer him on, help him up, or even spar with him; in maths, he had no one to study with or compare figures; in Latin, none would quiz him on conjugation; and, at mealtime, he consistently ended up with the slimmest heel of the loaf and the bottom-of-the-pot scrapings of whatever dreck was being served.

When he was still small and new, his was a lonely life of self-imposed social isolation. James preferred to pass the precious few moments of free time that the cadets were given by sullenly reading adventure stories and poring over merchant pamphlets mercifully sent by his father, often drawing fantastical animals in the margins with a stub of graphite. If his nose wasn’t in a book, and sometimes even if it was, James also enjoyed passing the time by mentally devising the best ways to torture and destroy the head boy of his unit. Davies. That lanky fuck who’d called him “short arse” on his first day would pay, eventually. It might take months or even years, but James would get his revenge. He’d knock all Davies’ teeth out. Break his knees backward. Smother him with a pillow. Drown him in a pot of his own piss and shit.

_Who’ll be the short arse, then, hm?_

 

Strangely enough, Delaney actually took well to seminary, even to the point where he dreaded returning home to Chamber House over the school holidays. At home in London, his father was snide and dismissive, if not completely absent; his step-mother was eternally cross and ecclesiastical; Brace was always busy, drunk, or both; and his young half-sister Zilpha was perpetually posed near her mother like a disapproving porcelain doll. James didn’t know where he fit at the Delaney house, if he ever even had. When he was home, he typically followed Brace around in the kitchen, dug in the garden, read books in the attic and ran after the dogs that haunted the muddy riverbanks. It was an unhappy emotional chaos, the Delaney house, with arguments and constant mysterious transgressions, stiff dinners and drunken tantrums. Half the time, James wondered if they’d even notice if he didn’t make the trip home.

At seminary, though, there was order. There was an established hierarchy, there was a schedule. There was right and there was wrong. There was a way to win and a way to lose, and James knew which was which. He knew his place, too—near the top. You toed the line, you kept your belongings in order, you showed up with every stitch and hair in place, with every T crossed, every verb conjugated.

The only gray areas at seminary were the social machinations that went on behind the masters’ watchful eyes: the fistfights, the dares, the feats of strength, the cutting jabs, and the withering insults.

James got more than competent at all those things, too, in time.

 

As James finally reached his teenage years and his body began to develop, his off-hour pursuits shifted away from books. He was ravenous at all times and soon began to push his way to the front third of the long table at which the boys assembled for their silent, grim meals. He argued his way into and then out of everything. He wagered younger and stupider boys out of their portions of bread, and he shoveled other boys’ porridge into his mouth when they weren’t paying attention. With the added sustenance and energy, he spent his free time in the evening training with the senior boys, who tolerated his presence if only as a patsy that they could use to make themselves look stronger. The “training” was thinly veiled combat and there was no one so big James wouldn’t wrestle him—or at least try to.

Morrison was the first to voice his support of Delaney stepping in to spar against boys years older and two stones heavier. “He’s mad, this one is,” he told them. James deliberately twitched his lip into a snarl.

Morrison came to see that although he was small, Delaney was relentless and daring. This wasn’t the basis of a lasting friendship, but Morrison had to admit Delaney had admirable traits, nonetheless.

Once, Delaney was prodded to fight a captive bear on Chancery Lane, solely because he was dared and no one thought he’d do it. Morrison was there, and came to see it as the day he lost his hold on his small band of miscreants.

Another time, Delaney sparked a noisy revolt in the mess hall on account of the custard looking and tasting distinctly of vomit. There was a brief but memorable food fight shortly after that landed Delaney in what the boys called the “Black Hole” for punishment.

“It was worth it,” Delaney boasted, “to see the look on Headmaster’s face when he slipped on that bloody mess.”

The other cadets agreed. Delaney was mad!, they said. He weren’t scared of no one, not even the headmaster.

“Let him in for a scrap. He was the one who led that custard fight.”

 

James, for his part, grew increasingly infuriated by the assessment that he looked too girlish to be a proper company man, that his face was only still pretty because he hadn’t taken enough punches. So, he took his punches, as many as he could get, as if they were medicine. He doled them out when he could, too, his skill in combat accumulating with every fight, with every scrap, with every busted blood vessel and every new cut. James was particularly proud of the deep cut through his eyebrow that would surely scar. A scar! He’d prefer to be ugly, anyway. With a swollen nose and a blackened eye, the other boys took him more seriously. Gave him a wider berth.

But, much to James’ dismay, he was never properly ugly for long: the black eye always faded, the swelling of his nose eventually abated, the abrasions healed, and when it came down to it, his lips just seemed to be permanently swollen. All the better to protect his front teeth from a punch, though, he consoled himself.

Despite his irrepressibly fine features and deceivingly sweet countenance, young James, soon to be leader of the EIC seminary misfits, had a nasty, aloof disposition and enjoyed no real friends. If he was speaking, he was snarling, or arguing with anyone in earshot: peers and tutors alike. Among his fellow cadets, both older and younger, James Delaney had few accomplices and many enemies—end of list.

Something to understand about James Delaney is that from even a young age, everything he did—be it good or bad, admirable or deplorable—was done because someone, at some point, told him he couldn’t, wouldn’t, or shouldn’t do it. This applied to everything, including getting good marks.

His father Horace had expectations of him, of course. Some were even voiced at Easter dinner, but at the same time, the elder Delaney set the very low bar of “try not to be discharged from the company that would take anyone who passed through the front gate.” It was not at all expected that James would do well in the academic portions of his education, as he showed little apparent interest in navigation or mathematics, but there was some hope that he might show some aptitude in sailing, at least. Maybe combat, if nothing else, as he was nothing if not a scrappy little shit.

James, however, surprised them all by his excellence in all subjects and exercises. No, _surprise_ is too gentle of a term. James Delaney _mortified_ everyone by his excellence at the East India Company military seminary. He was doing it out of pure spite, and it was clear to anyone who dared to look.

 

By 14, James had thickened in form and straightened in posture. He’d diligently transformed himself from the small, sullen, milky-white boy who’d entered the seminary to a muscular and hardy lad, built like an English bulldog and twice as cocksure. Though still thoroughly unpleasant, he’d more or less earned the respect—if not the fear—of both his seminary-mates and the faculty. Even the kitchen staff found it useful to do him special favors and allow him permissions that were considered more than gracious.

His voice gradually changed from a reedy pipsqueak, settling into a raspy and surprisingly deep timbre. His diction was excellent. Obnoxiously so. Almost everything he said sounded like he’d spent hours considering every syllable of every word. Delaney also spent hours exercising: practicing with a foil, racing over the grounds like he was pursued by an unseen phantom, sculling with the few boys who didn’t mind getting into a small watercraft with him, swimming laps when the water wasn’t frozen over. Delaney was ever trying to enhance his constitution and become stronger, more forceful.

Every seminary break that he was required to return to his family home, he’d beg Father to let him work with his hands at the offices on the dock, hefting barrels and crates until his bones ached, which seemed to please Horace.

James’ face was gradually, mercifully, shifting away from what was perceived as effete and more toward strikingly handsome. Or so James hoped. Striking. Handsome. Those were the words little Zilpha used.

“You’re _almost_ striking,” she needled him, from across the table before the adults had come to the table. “ _Almost_ handsome.”

The game, then, was to see who could reach their legs out far enough to kick their sibling’s shin without anyone noticing.

Although, to be truthful, it was the fullness of his mouth and the fine line of his nose that plagued him the most, belying his earnest attempts to look more manly and menacing. Worse, those same persistent good looks served almost as a challenge to any prospective usurpers.

_Go ahead, and take your best shot. Tell me I’m pretty, like a girl. See what happens._

Many boys did take on James’ unspoken challenge in the seminary gymnasium … or furtively in the hall, or messily in the latrine. And all of the boys, one by one, suffered a blow to their own physical attractiveness in the process. Delaney was the rare boy who could take a punch as well as throw one. It was a useful skill when one was clawing their way to the top of the heap, as James was.

 

A younger boy by the name of Godfrey came in as a first-year cadet and James Delaney, finally a senior boy, mystified all when he took him on as his fag—his first and only. Though the two boys didn’t seem to exchange more than the barest minimum of words, or enjoy any semblance of friendship or camaraderie, there were whispers that Delaney protected the boy only after seeing him singled out for being a sissy, a mummy’s boy.

There were even a few salacious rumors that went further into why Delaney might take that milquetoast under his protection, but those rumors were sussed out and extinguished like sparks in tallow. One wouldn’t want to get on Delaney’s bad side, Morrison advised all, adding the legend, which he’d seen with his own eyes, that the mad boy had fought a bear … and _won_.

The truth was, James knew he himself had, not long before, looked like a girl despite desperately not wanting to. And Godders—well. Godders likely desired to look like a girl, but he just … didn’t. He was all but doomed at the military seminary. He was fragile and brittle and sensitive. He’d be ripped to shreds as a ponce, ferreted out as a weakness, which was a shame as he’d not done anyone any harm in his life.

So, the boy had no one to look out for him and James had no one to look after his boots. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, one that James didn’t hold with any sentimentality, although it eventually occurred to him that Godfrey might. But, to be imposing, to hold clout, to intimidate the other boys, _to be fearsome_ , it wouldn’t do for James to trudge to the laundry to pick up his clean shirts or slavishly polish his own boots. He’d managed his chores all those years on his own, but with his increasing pull at the seminary came additional tasks and obligations. As long as he kept him as his fag, Godders would take no damage from lesser bullies; and as long as James stayed gruff and distant with the boy, there would be no unnecessary complications.

 

James, age 15, was finally considered to be reliable enough to take charge of his unit as a would-be corporal, after his predecessor, a lanky boy named Davies who’d once bullied a much younger Delaney, was found guilty of theft and abruptly discharged from East India Company seminary and service. For all his leadership training and fortification knowledge, Davies was saddled with the paramilitary equivalent of a dishonorable discharge.

There were, coincidentally, rumors that the brandy the young man had stolen from the housemaster was Delaney Trading Company Brandy, a gift or possibly a bribe from Horace Delaney himself. But that was hearsay at best and a planted rumor at worst. What was most damning, what got Davies expelled, was his full confession to the crime of theft and many more criminal charges. He delivered his confession to the housemaster with a mouthful of busted teeth and a particularly gruesome detached retina.

Everyone knew who to thank for that, as there was one boy who’d repeatedly threatened Davies.

James Delaney celebrated his ascension to corporal with another bottle of contraband Delaney Company brandy, which he would not share.


	2. Domine Non Sum Dignus

2\. Domine Non Sum Dignus

 

The older and stronger James Delaney became, the more attention he received—particularly from women. Ladies of all ages fawned over him, especially when he was in his East India Company seminary uniform. He was surprised to find that their flattery made him feel physically larger, even though he was as tall as he’d ever get at age 16.

His father, Horace, seemed to begrudge him this attention, despite James having achieved good marks and becoming the top-ranking boy in his unit. There were no mentions of either achievement, but the elder was quick to point out his son’s many shortcomings. It was just a light joshing here and there, at first. Then, as James grew to embrace his god-given gifts and use them to his own benefit, the comments turned more acrid. 

“Stop preening, you daft twat,” his father said, often, including scolding him whenever James happened to throw a reflection and glance in its direction. 

His father elaborated once, adding, “You aren’t by half as good-looking as I was at your age—when I’d already sailed around the world as a proper soldier. And I’d bedded more than ten women, at that.”

James gnawed his lower lip and kept his eyes away from his own reflection after that, especially around his father. 

Not that it mattered. Even unobserved in a mirror, James’ natural fairness was gathering admirers. His stepmother’s bible study group tittered any time he passed through the parlor when he was home at the same time Mrs. Delaney hosted. The barmaids at the pub his father frequented gradually stopped pinching his cheeks when he came by to fetch Horace, in favor of pinching their own sallow cheeks and pulling at the bodices of their gowns to reveal more skin. When James was in uniform, he noticed, accompanied women on the street started thanking him for his _service_. James didn’t correct them. The East India Company did provide some kind of service, after all. 

When the attention escalated even further, Horace Delaney took to knocking his son about after even the slightest offense—leaving the back gate open, feeding a stray dog, swearing. He aimed his open-handed smacks right at James’ face like he might beat the prettiness out of the boy. James fought to not fall for the bait and narrowly avoided lashing out in defense, even though every cuffing made his blood boil. 

On one occasion, after afternoon tea on the weekend, Horace—already in his cups with Brace at 3 pm, celebrating some new deal or appraisal or day of the week—told his wife, Zilpha’s mother, that James had been peacocking theatrically around in tight trousers at the docks. 

Peacocking! That’s what he said. “Like some ponce, looking for a suitor.” 

The men had a good laugh over that, but James’ stomach went sour. Up until that moment, he’d been secretly pleased that his father had asked him to come to the offices with him that day or any other. He was wildly curious about the goings-on down at the docks, where there was always something new and exciting.

“Imagine! James as a bloody molly!” Horace roared as Brace snorted with laughter. “Hey, boy! Think your mum and you might share rouge?”

 _She’s not my mother_ , James thought, glowering, before he could he could even think to protest his father’s insult. His mother was dead, years by then. James didn’t remember her and as far as he knew, took after her so little that he might as well’ve been all Horace. Perhaps that’s why he was such a disappointment. Whatever the case, around his father, James had learned to set his jaw and clench his fists so tightly that his nails drew semicircles of blood. As he did now.

Zilpha happened to notice his bottled-up fury, at least this time. She marched up to him and grabbed his hand to pull him away. For all her bratty standoffishness, young Zilpha was strangely perceptive when it came to her half-brother. She knew his wild, impetuous moods, for she had them too—the both of them suffered from righteous rage boiling just under their skin, likely a gift from old Horace. At least James had fighting as an outlet. All Zilpha had was her embroidery. Have you ever seen someone angrily stitching a bullion knot? You’d’ve seen it if you saw Zilpha sewing.

“Come, James,” she announced loudly, for their family’s benefit. He was almost shaking, he wanted so badly to kick over the side table that held his father’s goblet of brandy. Zilpha persisted, a small, dark heroine in rustling skirts. “Let’s go up to the attic and look at Father’s maps.” 

Studying Horace’s rolled-up and time-worn maps was one of their only shared hobbies as younger children. (That and their funny dreams.) They hadn’t gone up to vicariously explore the world in years, however. James almost told her off, as he didn’t much feel like looking at maps of the Congo. Zilpha gripped his hand tightly, her right hand trailing behind her as her left hand struggled to keep her from tripping over her skirts on the many stairs up to the attic. James squeezed her fingers back, not speaking for the duration of their ascent. 

When they were safely on the other side of the door, he boiled over, throwing her hand away from him as if she were the one who had insulted him. He pointed back down the stairs with one hand and the index finger of other at his sister. James sputtered: “They fucking think I’m a—!”

Zilpha flinched a little and shook her head. His language offended her more often than it did not and she interrupted him before he could continue. “No,” she said, dryly. “They don’t. Not really.” 

James blustered in her direction but Zilpha didn’t look bothered in the slightest. She leaned against one of Father’s crates, the dark moons of her eyes staring at him. “They’re just trying to get a rise out of you, James. You musn’t give them the satisfaction. It only makes it worse, you know. It’s what they want”

He knew she was right. The anger drained out of him suddenly and he crashed himself down in a ratty old chair to think on it. Of course Zilpha was right. He hated being teased, mocked, but he particularly detested it coming from Father. James squirmed against the ruined stuffing of the chair’s seat. He couldn’t get comfortable. He kept shifting back and forth in the chair, grumbling and flailing, eventually coming to rest in the chair crossways, with his legs over one of the chair’s arms while he reclined his back against the other.

“These damned pants!” he complained, shifting in the seat once again. His eyes caught Zilpha’s when he realized what he’d said and she broke into an actual smile. His anger had abated to just a mild irritation by that point, and he sighed theatrically, the poor beleaguered brother, knowing what she’d say next.

“They actually _are_ a bit small on you,” she giggled, covering her mouth to keep the laughter in.

James sniggered, too, despite himself. Zilpha was the only one at Chamber House who truly understood what it was like to be under their father’s heavy thumb. More, Zilpha was the only one in the whole of London who actually knew him and how much he hated being ribbed by his father. Sometimes, she wasn’t so bad. Once she was away from her mother. Sometimes, she was even … silly.

For effect, James stretched his knees apart so the fabric of his trousers pulled against his crotch. That’ll scandalize her, he thought, and he was correct: Zilpha squealed and covered her eyes. Grimacing for effect, James grabbed at the stressed twill gusset at his crotch and laughed, admitting, “They _are_ , actually. They’re bloody _strangling_ me!”

 

On another visit home to Chamber House, James and Zilpha had just had an row—not a serious one—at the dinner table. Over Latin, of all things. She’d said the motto translated as “Lord, I am _unworthy_ ” and James argued that it was “Lord, I am _not_ _worthy_ ,” which was, somehow, an entirely different meaning. Or was it? It was a childish argument that Zilpha could not ever win because she was not being properly educated. Not like a man. Not like James at seminary school, excelling in Latin and all other things.

Horace, who had yet to congratulate James on his academic prowess, nor Zilpha on her elocution lessons, pulled James aside after the women had left the dinner table. He hissed at his son as if his anger had been building for some time. His eyes were wild and his nose florid with the flush of too much wine when he said, “Do you not think I see what you’re doing?”

“No? … sir?” James stammered, surprised. It’d seemed like a commonplace enough dinner. Latin was a safe enough topic. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to answer his father in the affirmative, maybe? It didn’t seem to matter either way, as Horace continued, holding James’ elbow.

His father leaned in closer, scrutinizing him. Bigger than James only slightly, but with the kind of sinewy muscle that only old, leathery, retired sailors seemed to retain, Horace’s power emanated from him almost like a stench. James froze and kept his eyes focused on the wainscoting. 

“Stop _fucking_ flirting with your sister,” Horace snapped. “She’s a good Christian girl, like her mother— _my wife_ —and I don’t want you poisoning Zilpha’s mind, like a disgusting … _fucking_ savage. Looking at the maps! Pfft! Joking around like you’re mates at the pub. Bloody _Latin_. You stay away from her. Do you understand me?”

James looked at his father just briefly, shocked at the accusation, before returning his eyes to the wall. He wanted to argue with him. He wasn’t _flirting_ , he was— 

Oh. This is what Zilpha was saying not to do. Don’t fall into Father’s trap. It’s what he wanted.

“Yes, sir,” he replied in a low, grumbling rote.

“Yessir, what? Say it, boy,” Horace warned. He tightened his grip on James’ elbow and jostled him slightly. Both of James’ hands clenched into fists.

“Stay away,” he answered, swallowing. “Sir.”

“From?” Horace prompted again.

“From Zilpha, sir,” James finished.

His father, seemingly disgusted, pushed James away from him and released his grip entirely. James stood still and didn’t make eye contact, which he knew his father absolutely despised. It showed weakness, deference. So what. If he looked into those cold, black eyes, he’d lose control. 

He could feel the old man’s glare at him for a few moments, before Horace corrected him: “From your _sister_ , you degenerate mongrel.”

 

James, of course, contrary by nature, disregarded that advice in particular, and in time returned to visiting Chamber House upon every single break from seminary. Sometimes, he even got leave to return home on ordinary weekends, when he had earned reprieve from his corporal duties. If his father was home, James preferred to spend most of his time with Brace, learning how to drink like a proper gentleman (which is to say, copiously) and doing minor carpentry on the house. Sometimes, they did both, in that order, always while exchanging dirty jokes just out of earshot of the elder Delaney. James carefully avoided his father on those visits, much preferring to “happen by” when Horace was out of town on business. 

When Horace was elsewhere on business, James determinedly whiled away his hours with Zilpha, who had also been blessed by the blush of pubescence, despite remaining, as ever, her dark and sullen self. Her mother, James’ stepmother, was dazzled by his uniform, like all women were, and in Horace’s absence permitted him almost unfettered access to Zilpha, so long as he’d escort her to church and society events like he was a real soldier instead of just a boy in a company uniform.

 

The last year that James attended the East India Company seminary, three important events occurred in relatively quick succession.

First, James escorted Zilpha to a springtime party thrown by a young woman of a similar age who belonged to a family of similar standing. It was not entirely uncommon for a brother to serve as his sister’s escort to a gathering of mixed company—this particular group of boys was all brothers and cousins—but James had only recently discovered a party’s real appeal: Once the adult chaperones were satisfied that nothing more untoward than light perambulation and maybe some recitals would be on the agenda, they retired to their own rooms, leaving the young people to themselves. The boys would all go outside to sneakily drink stolen spirits and roll their sleeves up, and the girls would all sit inside, also sip stolen spirits, and talk about the boys. Or dresses. The bible? Something. James didn’t rightly know. He was too busy trying to best the other lads in feats of strength.

Both he and Zilpha were a little wobbly on the short ride back to Chamber House, his half-sister slightly more so, as she was less accustomed to the chosen libation (in her case, a bottle of claret nabbed from someone’s nan’s cupboard). The boys had all gotten into some brandy, which James had brought himself in a flask tucked into his coat. 

She took her brother’s arm after he offered to help her out of the carriage, but stopped on the sidewalk. “Let’s not go in,” she whispered, looking around as if she might be overheard. James smirked and shrugged in response. She went on, “I mean it. James, please. Let’s run off to—Borneo. Or … Hyderabad. Anywhere. Can we?”

James grumbled, “Come on, now. In you go.” He gently tried to nudge her toward the house with his elbow, but she stood planted. “Zilpha, don’t be a ninny. You’ve had too much claret. Go inside.”

Zilpha stared up at him for a moment and then shook her head like she was clearing away a vision that only she could see. After a breath, after she could see she had no ally in her brother, she nodded and started to move through the gate and up the stairs. 

“Fine, but we’re going to the back garden and finishing what you have in your coat pocket,” she concluded, quiet but resolute. James sighed and acquiesced, following her into the house. 

They walked through the quiet house in bare feet. And then, in the garden, without a word, seated side by side on an old stone bench, Zilpha lifted her skirts to her half-brother for the first time—quickly, indelicately. 

Her face was passive, sphinx-like, as if she’d been coerced into doing it and was just trying to get it out of the way. But it was all her idea, honestly so, much to the surprise and immediate interest of James, who had yet to see anything so much as a woman’s bare calf, much less the creamy white skin of an inner thigh barely lit by moonlight. His breath caught in his throat and he looked away from her lap to make eye contact. 

“What are you doing?” he whispered harshly to her. The house was dark and still behind them, with no fires or lamps burning, but the threat of discovery was still a real one.

Her answer was to shush him. And then, her quick, quiet reply: “What you wouldn’t dare.”

 _What he wouldn’t dare._ She had no idea! There was nothing he wouldn’t dare, if he’d only had the notion first.

Still too afraid to touch her, James kept his hands to himself, clenching them, with his heart beating wildly. Zilpha did him no such courtesy of idle hands, however, and she abruptly reached out with her free hand to press it against the front of his uniform trousers. James was stunned absolutely rigid. He was deeply confused, to boot. Pious, critical Zilpha was practically panting in his ear. Her pale teenage hand, with its long fingers and tiny, clean fingernails, was touching him at the site where he’d only touched himself during late-night, furious sessions. Only even rarely yet, just when he could find privacy at the seminary. Her touch was inexpert and fumbling atop his trousers, but baffling and exciting, nonetheless. His body quickly responded, as young men’s bodies are wont to do, and he instinctively drew closer to her with a low moan, finally daring to put his hot palm against the smooth, cool skin of her thigh. 

Just at that moment, the both of them breathing heavily and straining toward each other, Brace interrupted the act by slamming open the back door at the garden with a shout. 

“Ho, there! You’re lucky I didn’t bash you both in the head,” he scolded them, squinting at them in the semi-darkness. James and Zilpha stood immediately, turning to face him, their hands folded in front of them. Guilt probably writ large across their faces. At least shame, on the girl’s. 

As Brace ushered them into the house, he paused a moment at the door behind them. The old man grumbled at James, “Thought you were thieves, lurkin’ in the dark, the two of yous.”

 

  
The very next day, Horace unceremoniously marched his son and only male heir to the docks to meet Big Mary, the amiable proprietor of a whorehouse not too far from the Delaney Company offices. Mary, who no longer had the energy or interest in handling a brat, even if it was Delaney’s brat, secured the boy an hour with her best and most available (not always the same thing, but in this case, it would do) girl, Helga. 

Helga, a German, wasn’t as well-seasoned as most, but she was pretty in low light, and she could handle a first-timer like the Delaney boy. Mary gawked a bit when she got a good look at Horace’s son, young James, who had certainly filled out since he’d left for seminary. He wasn’t wearing his uniform, as that was frowned upon in situations such as these, Horace had cautioned a hang-dog looking James, but he was well put together.

Oh, but he was beautiful. And strapping. Finely muscled with an straight, pointed nose and a good jawline. How it might be that he hadn’t lost his cherry yet, Big Mary couldn’t imagine. For a moment, she reconsidered passing him off to Helga, in favor of taking him on herself. But, in the end, she decided if he were anything like his father, he’d be too much work and take much too long for her tastes. 

Besides, Horace wouldn’t have it. Not an old sow like her. He hissed at Mary through clenched teeth, his boy shuffling his feet in the alley behind him, to choose a good one, not a dried up slapper. Someone who James might return to when he felt the need, Horace said. He didn’t want him to turn into a ponce … or some kind of a deviant. 

“Pick a pretty one,” he instructed, “and let him take what he wants for as long as he wants. I’ll make up the rest of the difference, should he exceed the coin. I’m good for it.”

He paid the woman, turned on his heel, and left James to it, with instructions to meet him at the pub when he’d finished. But only after it was done. Not before.

 

Finally, on the same night that James returned to seminary, just a few days after his first hours with Helga, James was delivered a letter from his father saying that his sister Zilpha was being sent to boarding school, as far away from London as Horace and her mother could afford to send her. James, for his part, was to stay away from Chamber House for the time being. He could return for holidays only when his father and stepmother could be present as chaperones. If he behaved himself, he would be permitted to write his  _dear sister_  letters while she was away.

James was expected to dedicate himself to his work at the seminary, as he had before. Get his jollies at the docks, if that be his bent. But it was too late. James already didn’t want what came easily. Not what any man at the docks might have with a shiny coin. His tastes were already forming and not all the whores in the world could distract him.

Zilpha was already banished from London, he felt. Without her, the city—which had seemed enormous just months before—was beginning to choke and stifle him. He understood now why she wanted so badly to escape. There was nothing that Father couldn’t or wouldn’t control.

James tore the letter into tiny shreds and threw the pieces into the next fire he passed.

So, that was the end of that. At least for a time.


	3. Set Me Free, I Don't Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: James Delaney makes a mistake and someone notices
> 
> A short thing for TheAstronomer
> 
> Title from "Bathysphere" by Smog

“You think you could slip it by me, did you? I’ve forgotten more about rigging than you’ll ever know, you foolish little shit,” Horace Delaney spat, looking every bit the demon that he was rumored to be by the folk of East End, if not all of London. His hair was wild—what was left of it, anyway—and his bloodshot eyes were rolling in their sockets. He’d come as untethered as the rope in his hands. Most of the small crew—a skeleton crew, as of that time—looked away uncomfortably as Horace dressed down his son.

Young James Keziah Delaney knew that after his error he would likely never secure a position on his father’s brig. Certainly not for the scheduled voyage in two months’ time. Which meant he wouldn’t accompany him to the Azores, he’d have to go back to boarding school, and he’d look very much the fool in front of all of the other boys. And in front of his half-sister Zilpha, who would never let him forget it.

From his vantage point on the deck, where he’d landed after the back of his father’s hand knocked him sideways, James looked up at his father with hate blazing across his small, soft face. Being castigated for tying a clove hitch when he should have made a half hitch was humiliating. It was an innocent mistake, as James knew how to tie both knots, but it was a mistake nonetheless.

Already familiar with being on the wrong end of the switch at age 11, James knew that the worst possible thing he might do would be to talk back to his father, who tolerated no sass, no impudence, no retort. All the same, as the boy braced himself up on one arm and gathered his feet under him, he mumbled under his breath. He couldn’t stop himself, really—although he didn’t earnestly try.

“It’s a wonder you need any crew at all, then.”

Regrettably, old Horace Delaney’s hearing was quite good, and although he might not have been able to discern every word, he knew well enough when his son was giving him cheek. The good-for-nothing guttersnipe looked exactly like his witch mother when she was insolent and knew it was too late to avoid a beating.

Horace lunged for his boy and caught him by the ear. The ensuing pinch and twist virtually immobilized James, who went stiff-legged as his father dragged him to the gangway. Atticus, a boy just a few years older than James but with considerably more experience working on a Delaney Trading Company ship, hadn’t turned away, and the two boys made eye contact as James was unceremoniously led to the opening in the ship’s deck railing. Atticus knew better than to say anything, so he shook his head at James. He liked the younger Delaney all right, but he would be damned if he’d intervene in a father-son row.

They’d only just unmoored at the Lower Pool, getting a slow start as they navigated past the other vessels carefully, and in the distance, James could see Brace’s narrow form as he rowed the jolly boat back toward the docks.

“No, please!” James cried out, as he realized his father’s intention to throw him overboard. He was a strong swimmer, but he was doubtful he could catch Brace in the family’s small craft.

“Wish now I’d never taught you how to swim, James,” Horace growled, releasing James’s ear in favor of grabbing a fistful of the boy’s collar with one hand, and the seat of his woolen trousers with the other. The boy was slight, so he went over like a sack of oats.

As James sailed through the air, he drew in a deep breath in preparation. He’d stay under the water as long as he could, he would, just to make his father sorry. Maybe, if he was lucky, the Thames would claim him into its inky depths, and old Horace would be tried for murdering his only heir.


End file.
